"Must you?" said Faulkner, raising an eyebrow. "It is my experience that a person can wander for as long as they wish. But I would not call that a life..."

He watched her press the back of her hand to her mouth as her features were clouded with an apprehension that he had not yet seen in her, not even when they were ambushed up on the Spine, not even at the prospect of masquerading as a noblewoman under the king's nose. He fervently wished he could tell her that at the end of all of this, the curse would be broken, that she wouldn't have to make the choice between the few precious fragments of memories she still had left and some kind of a future. But of course, he couldn't. He didn't believe it himself.

"North of Rauwic, where the edge of the Range slopes down to meet the foothills of the Spine, there's a narrow valley called Lunedale that leads out to the peat-bogs beyond," he said, still watching her. "The rock at the bottom of the valley is as smooth as skin; a river- long dried up now- must have flowed along it. The water is gone but the rock still has the shape the river gave it, though no one, not my brother or my father or the older huntsmen in Rauwic could remember a time when it flowed. It will never be anything but river-worn and one day when I am many years dead, someone will walk through Lunedale and see that rock and know its character as I did."

Shifting on the fallen log, Faulkner stood up and looked back through the wood to where the chimney of Tova's cottage, bricks gleaming in the moonlight above the leaves, still gently smoked out the embers of the evening.

"So, you will always carry your past with you, whether you remember it or not," he said, turning back to Gwyn. He'd decided as soon as she'd woken him up in the attic a half-hour or so ago that he preferred her in her current attire to the richly-embroidered dress Tova had given to her; she moved better in it. Especially here, in amongst the trees.

"As for tracking me- I should like to see you try on foot, let alone on the wing," he added, with a sudden grin so brief one might have believed it to be a trick of the light had there not been the sound of a smile in his voice. He set off back the way they had come, winding his way down the narrow rabbit-run that led back to the cottage, not mis-stepping once, even in the darkness. "And Tova can barely tolerate a few hours out in the forest on a hunt. I doubt I would be reason enough to convince her to come out on the road. No, she's content enough to stay in Rauwic and earn her living making the women of the court look beautiful..."

Gwyn followed Faulkner's description with her mind's eye. She could envision the place he described so vividly it was as if she were there, just then, the riverbed-stone so smooth under her boots she might have slid along it where the slant was too steep. And she had not, to her knowledge, ever been there herself. His gruff voice simply carried images across with each word, and whisps of thought with each syllable. And the surety with which he spoke was infectious.

Perhaps it really was the same with one's identity. The memory of making decisions and learning lessons did not necessarily effect their impact. She did not remember the hours spent training her eye to carry an arrow to its mark. She did not remember crafting her bow, or learning how to carve at all. She did not remember her parents' names, but they had still shaped her into the person she would become. She would still be Gwyn, even if she did not know had she had become so.

Smiling in spite of herself, Gwyn stood to follow Faulkner back towards Tova's home. Her smile widened as he continued, though she could not be certain which response she was more pleased with. She addressed both with an airy lack of caring that was betrayed by the smile as she folded her arms around herself, briefly, to stave off the chill. "I dare say you should take greater care in where you issue your challenges, Lord Faulkner. You never can tell when someone will be willing to accept them..."

Then she quick-stepped in front of him, turning about so that she took her steps up the path in reverse, meeting his gaze evenly. "But is it really Lady Tova's desire to stay in Rauwic that prevents you from keeping one another? Surely she could work her magic on women in other towns...you could take her away in haste, and settle somewhere new, and quiet.

"Nay, I think what stays your asking her along is your unwillingness to live as you once did. You say you hate it here, but I do not think you are speaking of Rauwic itself."

She stopped as she bumped into the little fence around Tova's garden. Her head tilted a little in curiosity. Faulkner's problem--as she perceived it--was similar to Gwyn's as she had tried to explain to Kit what her future plans were. They shared a lack of desire for civilization. Gwyn's was natural, Faulkner's was acquired, but it had been his nature for at least half of his long life. And he had experience in, no doubt, disappointing one who had a natural proclivity to the organized, clean, decent lifestyle that came in a town or a city. Surely Tova would have been willing to come with him--even if she disliked the woods. If it was a matter of love...what did discomfort matter, really?

But then, perhaps it hadn't been a matter of love at all, and Gwyn was getting too far ahead of herself.

Gwyn leaned back against the fence, her hands laced behind her back. "Lady Tova said that you never were tame, even when you lived at court. I think you've gone positively native, whether purposefully or not. And there's nothing the matter with that. But it is a mite difficult to explain to those more suited to having roots, isn't it?"

When Gwyn hurried to step in front of him, Faulkner slowed his pace so she would not be forced to walk backwards too quickly and lose her footing amongst the fallen leaves and tree roots that littered the path, though he half-expected that such was her knowledge of the woods that it was nigh-on impossible.

Her reply to what he'd thought to be an answer to a throw-away question surprised him and he frowned, wondering if Tova had told her something of their past (although clearly, if she had, Gwyn had chosen to misinterpret it) or whether she'd simply plucked her assumptions from thin air. More importantly, he wondered why she cared to talk to him about it.

"What makes you think we wish to 'keep' one-another?" he said, as they emerged from the tree-line into the moonlit grass. It was dusted with frost-silvered spiderwebs that vanished beneath their footsteps, leaving dewy prints in their wake, Faulkner's larger ones passing into and over Gwyn's smaller ones as if they had simply walked towards and straight through each other like ghosts. "Or that we ever did?"

"Perhaps it is not just Rauwic I dislike, you are right. I have acquired a taste for the road and a distaste for stagnant places where the people sit and ferment like rotten fruit," he added, with a viciousness to his tone that was not directed at Gwyn. How could she even comprehend what he was talking about? She was a nomad herself but her dislike of- for want of a better word- civilised living was a phobia instilled into her since childhood, borne of ignorance. Faulkner's was borne of knowledge, too much knowledge, having lived that life himself.

Suddenly he found Gwyn had halted, stopped by the fence outside the cottage, and Faulkner was forced to stop too or else bump directly into her.

"But you would do well to remember our differences of opinion last night," he said, looking down at her. "The workings of Ranger hearts might be as simple as you describe, but if that is the case then you are a rare breed indeed. And there is little use in trying to tell you what the contents, or the lack of them, of my own were."

Gwyn stilled, leaning against the post that separated Tova's lovingly tended garden from the wild woods so nearby. She tilted her head and squinted at Faulkner, though her vision had long since adjusted to the dark, and here, outside of the trees, the details of his face stood out perfectly under the sparse light of the moon. Again, she found herself trying to imagine him with the shorter hair Tova claimed he had worn. She decided she liked it better this way--long and knotted. It matched his temperament better than any neat trim would.

"And whenever did I say that Ranger hearts worked simply?" Gwyn asked, tilting her head the other way. "Ranger affairs are ended simply, that is true, but in my experience the only hearts that are simple are broken ones. And it takes a great deal to crack the ever eager beat in one of my kinsmen's chest. I only ever said that all of the silly little complications that the other Albions toss into marriage are non-issues among my people--or, they were, rather. Political gain, gold, land, none of it matters."

Gwyn touched her own chest, and with a grand gesture, waved her hand towards Faulkner's own, and repeated what little she could remember of the old vows. "'And I hereby offer this exchange: my beating heart for yours. Forever in both directions, in this life and any to come, and come all fair and all foul, let us two be knit.' That is a grave enough oath to take without letting the designs of others muck things up, don't you think?"

She straightened, then, tugging her cloak closer around her shoulders. "It is my opinion that the only way to tell is something is done properly is if those involved in it see it simply--no matter how turbulent the waters truly are. As such, I suppose--as I wasn't involved in your past, it is your business and not my own. I hope you will forgive me for prying."

Ducking down, she slipped between the opening in the fence and straightened back up on the other side. She paused before turning to go back to the cottage, leaning against the fence once more to prod Faulkner's chest with a single finger. "And you should be so lucky, that someone might wish to keep you. To be wanted is always a boon, there is no need to turn your nose at the idea."

"Not always," said Faulkner. He watched her for a moment, on the other side of the fence, then turned to look out across the silver-glazed grass that led to the tree-line. After a few seconds, he moved to unlock the gate into the herb garden and walked down the path to the front door of Tova's cottage, oddly juxtaposed against the silent domesticity of parsley and thyme.

"And you should not spare so little thought for the want-er in all of this," he added, before quietly turning the handle and stepping into the kitchen which still glowed a little with the embers of the dying fire in the hearth. It was all exactly as they had left it on their way through the house down from the attic and again, without knowing that Kit and Tova slept in the rooms supported by the low beams just above their heads, he would have never have guessed they were not alone.

He led the way upstairs, passing by closed doors, until he got to the ladder that led to the attic. He did not relish the fact that he would have to go back up there and attempt to find sleep again when the air outside was so alive and chill. But tomorrow was to be the day that Kit and Gwyn would attend court for the first time and the day when they would have to fend for themselves, relatively speaking, in the isolation of the grandeur of the castle. And tomorrow was to be the day that Faulkner had to tell the story Tova had been gently urging him to tell ever since they'd arrived here. He'd need sleep for that.

"Goodnight," he said, voice low as he paused on the first rung of the ladder. "Feel at liberty to wake me if you ever need to 'take the air' another night."

With that, he surefootedly ascended the ladder before disappearing into the darkness of the attic. The ladder was soon pulled up after him and the trapdoor quietly closed. He barely even disturbed Kay when he took off his jacket and shirt and slipped back beneath the covers of his makeshift bed on the floorboards once again.

Gwyn followed Faulkner up and into the house, silent on the outside, fumbling for answers in her head. Faulkner's smallest comments always seemed to weigh the heaviest in her head. Who was the want-er whose plight she was ignoring? Had Faulkner wanted Tova after all, and resigned himself to being without her--or was it reversed? Or was there some unseen lover in the past who she would never know of? Or was she wrong in all of these things, and it served her right for sticking her nose where it didn't belong.

And then, of course, she could not ignore the possibility that Faulkner was simply goading her into maddening, spiraling, answerless questions. In fact, that seemed more likely than that playful-but-elegant Tova and surly, unguessable Faulkner might have traded hearts with one another.

Really, what did it matter? Nothing to Gwyn. It was a matter of curiosity; like wanting to know about Kit's family, whom she had never met and in all likelihood never would meet. Like Kit wanting to know about her fuzzy plans for the future. Idle curiosities. Nothing more.

And so they should have been easier to let go. But after Gwyn had returned Faulkner's offer with a smile and murmured her own "Goodnight, Ayden," and once she had returned to bed, even as she lay drifting off whereas before she could not so much as shut her eyes, the possibilities played out in her head, unraveled in her dreams, and were still with her in the morning. She shoved thoughts of a past that held little sway over her present and none at all over her future into the back of her mind, changed back into a gown, and made her way down into the main sitting room before the sun was fully risen. She stoked up the fire and, absent-minded, set about preparing the morning meal for her companions. There was a little smoked meat to be taken with a little bread, as well as leaves to be soaked into bracing tea, but aside from that she didn't care to dig too deeply into Tova's wares. Who knew what she was saving, and for whom, and for how long.

With the kettle set to boil, Gwyn found her tired spool of thread and the trusted needle with which she'd sewn together Faulkner's arm after the bandit attack, and set about making repairs to the clothes she would not likely wear until this adventure was over. She needed something to occupy her hands, until there was something more proper to occupy her thoughts. She hummed an old tune under her breath as she worked, the words long forgotten. She allowed her hair, unbraided and scarcely combed, to tumble around her like some sort of mane. To tame it would be to accept that the day of her and Kit's real test had truly arrived, and she was not quite prepared for that commitment yet. Not before the kettle had even begun to whistle.

The Torr, twenty-four years ago

Up on the hill beyond the Torr, Tova cautiously stretched out her arm. With surprising force, the harris hawk leapt from the gauntlet, the flap of its feathers audible against the air, and she staggered backwards. The bird swooped up then arced swiftly down again, soaring just a few feet above the heads of the waving grasses as it scanned for the half-rabbit Faulkner had thrown just minutes before.

Eyes laughing, Tova cast a glance first at Faulkner then at Queen Inira.

“My lady, you would not expect it to kick off so!” she said. “Of course, His Majesty would surely disagree, but I am certain there is more intelligence in a hawk than in a pack of hunting dogs. There is something…”

“In its eyes,” said Inira. “I know of what you speak, Lady Tova.”

To Faulkner, Inira was somehow less there than the expressive quick-tongued Tova, who addressed her as if she was a friend rather than the Queen of Dunoting. Her voice when she spoke (which was not often) was as thin and clear as a ringing bell and her complexion, even out here in the warm July air, was translucent against her dark hair. It was as if someone had hollowed out the inside of her and secreted her essence away somewhere safe, leaving an echo to walk around and play the part of queen. He wondered vaguely where she really was; back home on the border estate from which Mor had plucked her perhaps…

“You wish to try your hand, your Majesty?” he said, moving to take another gauntlet from his bag.

“No, no thank you,” she replied swiftly, taking a step back. There was a brief silence which Tova opened her mouth to fill. But Inira spoke again before she could utter a word. “Where do you buy your birds from, Faulkner?”

“We do not,” he said, not letting the surprise show on his features. Across the way, the harris hawk had seized the rabbit carcass in its talons and rose back into the air. “Unless we need new blood or if there is some rare species we are lacking. My brother Caine breeds them at the Torr.”

“I should like to see them, if that is possible.”

“Of course, your Majesty” said Faulkner, stony-faced. Not once had a courtier, let alone a noblewoman, shown interest in the stock of birds Caine kept up at the top of the Torr. No wonder the women of the court whispered about her in the corners of the Great Hall; she was not one of them and didn’t seem to know how to be. Or else she simply didn’t care. “Allow me to escort you back down the hill.”

“Do not trouble yourself. I think it will be difficult to lose myself between here and there,” Inira said, looking across to where the Torr stood, rising like a dark thorn out of the meadow. She smiled a soft smile at Tova then set off down the slope, lifting her skirts out of the way of her feet. Unfazed, Tova dipped her head in a curtsy at her mistress then flinched as the harris hawk suddenly appeared in a sudden gust of feathers and fur. It landed stoically on her arm and turned its amber eyes to the retreating figure of the queen, the dead rabbit thudding to the ground at an astonished Tova’s feet. Faulkner laughed and held her arm steady whilst he transferred the hawk from her gauntlet to his, taking the time to brush the fingertips of his uncovered hand along the inside of her wrist. It didn’t take long to forget all about the Queen of Dunoting.

The quiet of the kitchen in which Gwyn sat was broken by the rumble of feet on the landing above. A few minutes later, Faulkner, followed closely by a sleepy-looking Kit, came down the stairs to crowd the low-beamed room.

"Is it not too early?" Kit was saying, rubbing his eyes fiercely.

"Better now before someone can catch a glimpse of two men sword-fighting in Tova's garden," replied Faulkner, nodding at Gwyn as they passed. "You want to know something of it before you go to the castle tonight, do you not?"

"Well, yes," said Kit, in a tone that implied this was obviously not what he had been expecting as a consequence. "Good morning, Gwyn! Did you make-?"

He was cut off as Faulkner pulled him out of the front door of the cottage and strode down the path outside to the patch of grass he and Gwyn had ventured across the previous night. The gossamer cobwebs were now laced with beads of dew that danced and burst beneath Faulkner's boots. At the edge of the tree-line, he stopped and took his knife from his belt, reaching up to saw off a young branch from a nearby beech. After removing the slender leafy end, he tossed it over to a bewildered Kit and set about taking down another.

"Is this to be my sword?"

"You would rather we begin with steel?" said Faulkner, wielding his own branch. "Now show me how you would stand with it."

Kit frowned and tried to position himself in the fencing stance he had seen portrayed by figures in the tapestry at Kingsmead town hall when he had gone there with his father as a boy. Sword arm out, one leg lunged forward with the other limbs held back for balance. He barely had time to blink before his makeshift sword thudded to the grass. He stared at Faulkner in astonishment, wondering if the other man had really just disarmed him or if he'd somehow accidentally dropped the branch.

"And that is why no one fences on a battlefield. Mor is a soldier and the rest of his court would like to pretend they are too. Stand like this..." said Faulkner, indicating his own feet, placed about a shoulder's-width apart. "Your sword like this..."

Gwyn returned Faulkner's nod and Kit's smile, but didn't have a chance to say anything before both men were out the door and off to 'play soldier,' as Tova had put it. Gwyn remained by the fire, absent-mindedly sewing up a hole in her cloak, for all of three more stitches.

She couldn't sit there doing embroidery while something of this magnitude was happening just outside. Kit, learning how to wield a weapon he had, to her knowledge, only ever crafted before. Faulkner, in that most revealing of positions: teaching.

Gwyn hurriedly filled three beakers with tea so that she might have an excuse to play audience to the spectacle of swordplay. Then she abandoned her stitchery and hurried out after the boys.

She stepped outside just as Kit's makeshift sword was knocked from his hand, and used the distraction of the men repositioning themselves to settle herself quietly on the grass nearby. She sipped at her tea and set the beakers for Faulkner and Kit to the side, ready for consumption. Unless the lesson dragged on, in which case she would simply drink them by herself.

It wasn't the first time she'd ever witnessed a lesson like this, though she could no longer recall her relation to those she had witnessed in the past. Kit bore his usual earnest expression as he followed Faulkner's directions, miming the older man's posture well enough to show he was paying attention but poorly enough to show that the art of war was utterly new to him. Which, of course, it should have been. Sweet young men like Kit had no business in such matters. He belonged in a quiet home, where he could be gentle and considerate and content, and that was all.

Faulkner moved with a solid certainty that belied years of practical application. This was just as unsurprising as Kit's movements. After all, they had witnessed him laying aside those bandits in the pass as if they were children. Children who got lucky on his shoulder, but still, he knew what he was doing.

"Do many birds practice this martial art?" Gwyn asked, after watching in silence for some time. She finished off her tea, and refolded her legs beneath herself. "They must, for a falconer to have learned it so well."

“I earned wage as a mercenary for many years,” said Faulkner in reply to Gwyn’s jest, once he’d disarmed Kit for the second time. The younger man frowned, the heat of embarrassment (amplified a dozen times now Gwyn had casually come to watch his humiliation at the hands of Faulkner’s swordsmanship) rising to his cheeks. He gripped his sword tighter, determined not to be relieved of it for a third time. And his wasn’t, for which he was rewarded with a curt nod from Faulkner. If only the smelting and smithing of steel was considered as admirable a skill as wearing it down on the hide of one’s enemy. He would never match Faulkner in a fight but he was willing to bet he could forge a sharper edge than anyone in Rauwic.

“Now, to parry a blow from this side...”

The lesson continued, with brief pauses only to sip the hot tea Gwyn had brought out with her. Was she oblivious to it the effect she was having on Kit, who was suddenly more hesitant now he had an audience? She must be, Faulkner concluded, or else she would spare him his blushes and stop watching so intently. For she could not be watching for any other reason than idle interest; he suspected that she was no stranger to a sword herself, given her skill with a bow. He would have given her the opportunity to demonstrate it too, if that wouldn’t have demoralised Kit completely.

And yet, as new to it as he was, Kit was not a slow learner and it did not take long for him to become competent enough at the most basic thrusts, parries and slices to fool an audience of courtiers.

“Your advantage is in your hammer arm,” said Faulkner, knocking back an upslice with ease. “You’re strong, Cytastan, stronger than me. Imagine me to be the anvil and-“

Having gradually become more and more frustrated as Faulkner dealt with each painstakingly-thought out blow without breaking a sweat, Kit expelled his uncustomary anger with a sudden brutal downstroke that had every ounce of his weight behind it. Faulkner met it, but only just, and the force of it sent him down onto one knee in front of Kit. After a breathless moment, the older man laughed and used his make-shift sword to lever himself back up to standing as Kit stared at him, half-shocked half-worried at what he’d managed to do.

“I see Ayden is leading you astray, Kit my dear,” said Tova, from the doorway to the cottage. Her arms were crossed and her eyes were narrowed a little against the early morning sun. “We need fewer fighters in this world, not more. Come inside, else Gwyn’s breakfast shall go to waste...”

Gwyn observed the lesson mostly in silence, offering only a murmur of appraisal or jest when it had been too long since she’d used her voice. But there was little commentary needed to make the lesson entertaining. Faulkner moved with an expertise that could rarely be appreciated—it was not flashy enough for show alone, and any instance where he might use his skill elsewise could only be observed in the heat of battle, when there were far more important tasks calling for one’s attention. And Kit, free now from the haze of grief and fear, showed an excellent learning streak. He moved with far less certainty than the older man, and his struggle to maintain attention would have been cause for concern, had they been wielding steel, but his improvement was impressively rapid.

When Kit at last disarmed his tutor, Gwyn found herself jumping to her feet to offer applause. Her grin briefly faded as Tova appeared, showing far less appreciation for the marked improvement. But she brightened as she turned to face the two men once more.

“I must agree with our kind hostess. There are far too many brutes in the world. We have become peopled by those who seize what they desire through power with little consequence and less conscience.” She flashed Kit a secret smile, waving him back towards the cottage. “If only there were some who might oppose them—if only there were some of nimble mind and sweet spirit to temper their skilled hands. If only.”

She fell into step with Faulkner as he passed, locking her hand beside herself and humming under her breath. “A keen teacher and a keen student. Should you continue to tutor our Blacksmith, you may have a warrior on your hands. Which I suppose may be necessary, should our adventures in court go badly.”

Inside, she helped Tova serve out the early meal, turning her attention away from teasing Kit so that she might try and copy some of Tova’s grace. Her mannerisms, the way she held her hands when they were empty, the elegant way she moved her head and arms, as if they were crafted of the same piece of marble. There were dozens of little details to memorize, and Gwyn imagined she could be all year at it and still not make it look as natural as Tova on an ill day. She supposed this was as frustrating for her as swordplay was for Kit. She also supposed they were miles past changing their plan now.

Once she had eaten, Gwyn perched on the edge of a bench and set about twisting her hair into a rough assembly of the coils Tova had shown her the day before. “When we are introduced at court, who shall we expect to meet? Surely not the king. More court-bound puffs like-“

She paused, glancing at Tova and deciding that a proper woman would not insult another’s friend. Not without thought, at least. “I mean, more courtiers like the Lady Gertrude—Geraldine—like Lady Tova’s companion?”

Kit grinned a small grin at Tova, unsure whether she was being serious in her gentle reprimand, although she maintained her steady expression as he shakily handed his make-shift sword back to Faulkner. That grin grew wider as he glimpsed Gwyn's smile; a more than adequate reward for a half-hour of mild humiliation at his lack of swordsmanship. He stooped briefly to pick up the beaker of hot tea Gwyn had brought out (though by now only lukewarm) and followed Tova back inside the cottage.

Still outside, Faulkner threw the two branches back into the undergrowth then walked back up the path, Gwyn matching his every step.

"If only. What a pity it is, then, that there is no-one here who possesses both those opposing attributes," said Faulkner darkly. "Kit will never be a warrior, though with a little work he may be able to fool a few equally un-warrior-like courtiers. That should be enough."

Ducking his head to move past the threshold, Faulkner sat down at the table once they were inside and nodded his thanks as breakfast was served by Gwyn and Tova.

"Giseld," said Faulkner and Tova simultaneously correcting Gwyn. Tova continued: "There is a feast tonight in celebration of a battle hard-won on the northern borders. You shall be introduced to the court then; the king may be present at first but I am told he does not stay very late at such events these days so you will not have to concern yourself with him just yet."

"But won't there be a great many people at a feast," said Kit, putting his beaker as a sudden wave of nausea came over him.

"Yes," said Faulkner. "But that is to your advantage. There will be other newcomers introduced to the court tonight. You will be two of many. Besides, no doubt Giseld will take you under her wing... She has always liked to have someone to exert an influence over and the two of you will provide a great opportunity for her."

"I'm sure there is kindness to it too, Ayden," said Tova, with a frown.

"An atom, perhaps," he said, ducking as Tova took a half-hearted swipe at his head.

At first, Gwyn found herself inclined to disagree with Faulkner. Kit was strong--for his age, or for any age, really. Stronger than Faulkner, it seemed. And that physical strength was matched by a strength of character. He was adept at using the tools of war. He was a fast student. Surely he could learn to fight as well as any other capable, clear-headed young man with any real need.

But that was not what made a warrior, and Gwyn knew it. Kit could never take any delight in war. Not real war--with blood, and death, and bodies strewn about those who had been successful in the endeavor. She could not imagine Kit taking the life of his greatest enemy, much less a complete stranger. Not to defend himself, and certainly not because he was pointed in the other man's direction and simply told to 'go.' So, no. Kit would never be a warrior. And Gwyn hoped he would never have cause to consider it.

She listened with trepidation matching Kit's as Faulkner and Tova described their future evening. A temptation to ask Tova along (knowing Faulkner could not come himself) danced under her hands as she finished serving and partaking of the morning meal. But she squashed down the childish fear of going out alone. If she could manage living alone, surrounded by all manner of wild things--being a wild thing herself--she could manage an entire evening without ruining the opportunity for an entire nation's salvation at the hands of an untested young man.

"What--em--" Gwyn cleared her throat more noisily than she'd meant to, "what sort of influence might she expect to hold over us? I do not see what power can come from two newcomers in a sea of faces. Must we tend to her? Fetch her fresh kettles for tea or some such nonsense?"

Tova smiled at Gwyn's nervous question.

"It suits Lady Giseld to have young people around her through which she can live a more exciting courtly life than her own. She is a widow and her only two children have already entered the court. Treat her as a... venerable great aunt or something along those lines," she said, as Faulkner snorted with laughter in the background. "Respect and deference, perhaps the odd beaker of tea and acceptance if she asks you to wait on her whilst she readies herself for a ball, but remember there will be servants to do the rest of it."

"But try not to worry. The important thing about the feast tonight is to not draw too much attention to yourselves but also to enjoy it," Tova said. "Or at least appear to. Don't look so surprised, Kit," she added, at the look of incredulity on the young man's face. He didn't think he'd ever be able to relax so long as he remained within the castle walls. Let alone enjoy himself.

"Even Ayden used to enjoy the balls at court, once upon a time," she went on, casting a glance towards Faulkner.

"Undoubtedly too much."

"Now, we must get you both ready," Tova said, catching Gwyn's hand and tugging her gently towards the stairs. "Gwyn, I have one last dress for you to wear tonight. Lady Giseld's carriage will collect you both in the afternoon so we must make sure we are prepared and packed in time."

"How are we to find out when we are to meet with Faulkner?" said Kit, his nerves suddenly two-fold.

"Tova will find out from Giseld which rooms you are occupying," said Faulkner. "And I shall leave a note."

"But how will you-?" Kit began, but then stopped as Faulkner raised an eyebrow at him and he realised how stupid the question he'd been about to ask was.

Gwyn nodded in understanding with each of Tova's points. Not because she fully understood, but because she did not want to cause their hostess any further concern. The truth of it, of course, was that Gwyn felt Kit's visible fears mirrored within herself so powerful they might as well have been sharing a brain. But, perhaps because she was the older of the two, or perhaps because his world was changing more than hers, or perhaps even because she did not want to give Faulkner more material against either of them, she managed to bottle her worries. Stiff-lipped, she followed after Tova so that she might struggle into another gown finer than anything she had ever owned before.

"Then we must make plans for how we are to share our private conversations," Gwyn murmured, imagining with a chill someone discovering Faulkner's note. Or, worse, Faulkner himself. Even after a quarter of a century, a massive bird of prey perching in a young nobleman's windowsill might remind those with longer memories of the king's would-be assassin. They could not risk Faulkner delivering a note to each of them, and so they would have to come up with some system of secret-sharing.

"Do wedded couples share rooms in the castle?" she asked, pausing at the top of the stairs. "We have already announced ourselves as betrothed. Perhaps we should stage a wedding? Then we may have more opportunity for privacy."

She shook her head, continuing up after Tova. "Imagine if we were discovered because someone took issue with our shuffling off alone. The wrath of a tyrant king coupled with the humiliation would be enough to quell my heart's beat. And then who would fetch Lady Giseld's tea?"

The Torr, twenty-four years ago

“Do you think she has noticed anything?” said Faulkner, turning away from the window. It was late afternoon and high summer; the sun was only now beginning to lose some of its heat and begin its descent back to the west. Outside, the grass of the meadow had long dried out to a straw-gold, jewelled with wildflowers and in the distance it was lost to the shimmer of warm air above the line of the hill behind the Torr.

“Noticed us?” replied Tova as she finished adjusting her skirts. The sight of Faulkner, back slick with perspiration in the soft afternoon sunlight, relit the ember in her belly and she took a luxurious moment to savour it.

“Guessed why you are so taken with the sport of falconry,” he said, flashing a sudden grin at her as she stepped towards him to press her lips to the bead of sweat that had tracked its way down to the base of his throat. His grin suddenly disappeared underneath white linen as Tova tossed his shirt at his head and removed herself from him to slip on her shoes.

“She will not need to guess for I have already told her.”

“What?” Faulkner froze, one arm inside his tunic.

“Why else do you think she has been so obliging in taking an interest in what you do, Ayden? If not to give me reason to come here?” said Tova, crossing her arms. “She will keep my secret very well; she is my friend as well as my mistress… It is true,” she added, as Faulkner’s glower took on a hint of scepticism. “She is not just the Queen of Dunoting, though everyone seems to see her as such.”

“You are certain…?”

“Yes. She is no more likely to unleash scandal upon the Torr than your brother. Or your lanner falcon,” she said, tugging the hem of his tunic down over his navel and letting her fingertips linger on the line of muscle below his hip. “When did you become so concerned about preserving your illusion of virtue? Because I loathe to tell you that it’s a very transparent veil indeed, even at the court.”

“Then I had better not sully it further by revealing my association with one such as you,” he shot back, to which Tova pursed her lips in mock indignation. “I would not care, were it not for the closeness of yourself to the queen; I would prefer you to remain in a job. And my head on my shoulders.”

Slipping an arm around her waist, Faulkner tugged her off to one side of the window and they both watched, her back to him, as a slight pale figure idled in the grass out of the shadow of the Torr, a glint of white indicating her occupation. Inira was sketching, or at least, she was poised to; from up there the paper looked blank and unmarked.

“Do you think her beautiful?” Tova said.

“Yes, I suppose. But there is no life to her; I’m surprised she doesn’t melt away in the heat.”

“The king adores her. I see it in his eyes whenever he is with her.”

“And in hers?”

“She will learn to, I expect, in time,” said Tova. She turned around in his arms and her eyes fluttered shut as he bowed his head to crush a kiss to her lips. Behind them, below in the meadow another figure walked through the grass, a brightly-plumaged bird on his shoulder that was to be the subject of the Queen of Dunoting’s picture.

"My dear, you must not worry. So long as you do not flaunt it in the faces of the older courtiers, no one will take issue with a betrothed couple stealing a little time away alone together," said Tova. For one so worldly in some ways, Gwyn was remarkably naive in others. Were all Rangers like her? Or was she simply a product of her drifting and unanchored past? "Gods know more scandalous things go on in that place every day. But for the sake of propriety you will have to sleep apart."

Ushering Gwyn inside her bedroom and pushing the door to, Tova bent down to pull out a wooden box from beneath her bed. Opening it, she drew out its contents and held it up to the light. It was a long gown, in delicate oyster, embroidered with rose-gold thread, overlaid in scalloped lace across the bodice and draped to the back and sides of its skirts. It had long sleeves which were gathered at the elbow before narrowing down the forearm to graze the knuckles of its wearer.

"I wore it when I was your age," said Tova. "I've altered it, of course, to fit you better and to attend to the style of today. But you shall have it to wear tonight if you wish."

She held out the dress then sat down upon the bedspread.

"Now, before we go back downstairs, is there anything else you wish to ask me?" she said, reaching across to the side table to take a few gold-embellished hairpins from the box that sat on top of it. "I have no qualms about your readiness for court, my dear; but if you have questions, say them now," she added, standing again once Gwyn had put the dress on to place the pins in her hair.

Gwyn shimmied into the dress, trying not to imagine how better suited it must have been on a younger Tova--how much better suited it would be on Tova now. She wondered, not for the first time, why it was not Tova who was going to court with Kit. Should not an aunt accompany her young nephew?

But Gwyn knew she would be filled with guilt, should she stand back and watch Kit go off alone. He was so innocent. So alone, and removed from his element. Very much as she had been when the Range fell.

Well, alone and out of her element, at least.

"I suppose I do have one question," Gwyn said at last, going stock-still as Tova completed her hair. She paused, seeking out the right words, then looked down at her knitted hands.

"Should I be discovered--and really, it could not be all that difficult to root me out, should anyone seek to--what must I do to protect Kit? Should I feign ignorance? I could be a Ranger's child and not know it, after all. Or should I act as if I have been plotting against him in some fashion? Using him to get to court?" She drummed her fingers against her knee. "The end would be the same for me--let us not pretend otherwise. But I would not see Cytastan brought to harm because he has unfortunate connections. No more so than he already has been."